


The Republic

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartenders, F/M, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blackout never happened.  Instead, Miles and Bass run a bar together despite the fact that they're pretty crappy bartenders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Republic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swietlik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swietlik/gifts).



> This was my attempt to fulfill Swietlik's request for a Bartending AU where everyone is happy and everything is coming up roses. Some feels got in the way, but I think I made Miloe come to heel, like a good dog.

“’Love' is the name for our pursuit of wholeness, for our desire to be complete.”  
― Plato, _Symposium_

 

The bar had been called The Republic, not for any pro-commie sentiments that they were often accused of (in jest – no one wanted to start a real fight with proprietors), but rather because Bass had been a closeted nerd and a huge fan of Plato. And Miles loved to humor his business partner and childhood best friend, or so he claimed when he tended bar and the topic would come up. In actuality, Miles had always been proud of Bass and his penchant for books and learning. He was thankful, in fact, that someone like Bass would let his sunshine occasionally creep into his own tenebrous shadows. Bass had saved Miles’ life in more ways than that one time that he took a bullet for him in Iraq (that idiot).

The bar had been a lifeline in itself. There wasn’t any reason for Bass to ask, but he did say to Miles “You know your booze as well you know your ordinance,” and that had been excuse enough. The settlement money from the accident which had left Bass bereft of his entire family in one night would have been sufficient to send another man heading straight for early retirement and a tropical island somewhere. But, no, not Bass. He had spent a large chunk of it on the hefty down payment for the primo real estate that would become The Republic, and thrown the keys at Miles saying no more than, “If you’re gonna drink yourself to death, I might as well keep an eye on you while you’re doing it.”

It wasn’t a specific event that Miles could recall that really pushed him over the edge during the war. It certainly wasn’t finding out that Emma had moved on to someone more stable and less flighty by the time that he had returned, as many had whispered, that was the breaking of his proverbial back. Sometimes, bad things just happened. They happened a lot more when you were at war. It made you hard, he supposed. But it hadn’t made Bass hard. They were both familiar with the frying pan and the fire, but somehow it was Bass who had come out of it like a newly burnished angel, his hair a halo of curls around his radiant face, and it was Miles who had found himself looking for meaning at the bottom of each subsequent bottle.

“I thought there was some kind of a rule about alcoholics tending bar,” Jeremy Baker snickered one afternoon. He was a Regular with capital R. You could even say he had his own stool, even though there wasn’t an official sign, nothing but the snarl in the corner of Miles’ mouth that would appear whenever someone else would set their sights upon the seat.

“Sure, but when you run the place, you make your own rules,” Miles replied, gruffly. He humored the man, much as he had humored Bass and his insistence on putting bookshelves into every corner of their bar. But Bass didn’t tell Miles how to run The Republic and Miles didn’t tell Bass how to decorate it. “Plus, I’m not an alcoholic – I’m a lush. There’s a difference.” He poured the man another shot of Glenfiddich and then poured a tumbler for himself. “Salud!” He gestured towards his customer, downing the drink.

“What are we drinking to today?” Jeremy asked, taking a sip of his own drink, in no rush to catch up with his host in the imbibing department.

“Customer’s choice,” Miles muttered and eyed the length of the bar.

A couple more regulars warmed the seats, entranced by the flat screen above the bar (Bass thought it had been tacky, but Miles convinced him that not everyone went to a bar for a taste of their witty banter). There was also the British woman who had ordered a dry martini and Miles had to bite his tongue to keep himself from asking whether she wanted it “Shaken or stirred?” She was new. Probably in town on business, judging by the constant tap-tap-tapping she was doing on her Blackberry as she sipped her drink.

“Women?” Jeremy suggested, catching the trajectory of Miles’ eyes.

“Huh?”

“I was suggesting that we drink to women,” Jeremy explained, smirking again. Miles gave him a wry smile in return. He couldn’t tell if the man was taunting him, or if the local lothario really did only have poon on his mind as the rumor mill would have it.

“Romantically, sexually, metaphorically?” Miles leaned across the bar, his dark brown eyes focusing on his customer’s sly grey ones.

“Don’t you have any use for them, Miles?”

There were times that Miles suspected the man who frequented his bar had been Satan incarnate. Surely, the man’s chosen profession of an attorney was not a far cry from being Demonic, although Miles never did figure out exactly what kind of law he practiced. Bass always said if it had been corporate law, he wouldn’t be drinking at their bar. The Republic was a classy joint, but it wasn’t exactly where hoi poloi came to rub elbows and talk deal making. Miles shrugged and assumed Baker simply lived in the neighborhood.

“What is that? The Socratic method you’re applying to me?”

“I thought it would be appropriate – what with the name of your bar and all,” Jeremy grinned.

“Smartass,” Miles snapped and refilled the man’s glass. “That’s on the house.”

“You love me.”

“Nonsense, I am incapable of such feelings.”

Jeremy laughed and leaned over to his right where the British tourist was seated. He tipped his fingers to his forehead in a salute, catching the woman’s eyes, and offered to buy her another drink, claiming to have good credit at the place and apparently making her laugh. She had introduced herself as “Maggie” and shortly after mixing her next dry martini, Miles left them alone to get acquainted.

***

Bass had been in love with his best friend since he was old enough to recognize it for what it was. And in some part, it was Plato who was to blame. There was nothing inherently platonic about Plato. He had read _Symposium_ for the first time when he was fifteen, far too young to properly understand it, but old enough to recognize the feeling of being wooed that he had gotten from the text.

There were different kinds of love spoken of in Plato, and Bass could feel each of them distinctly leaving him tattered and torn in every direction each time Miles Matheson would direct those brown puppy dog eyes at him. It wasn’t fair. He went stupid in his presence. He would have done anything for him. He _did_ do anything for him. Enlisted for him, jumped in front of a bullet for him, even convinced himself that he had comforted Emma for him that one time that they… you know. He was barely eighteen then and he thought that it was the closest he would ever come to touching Miles like that, if he could touch the same skin that Miles had touched, had put his lips on. And she was so beautiful and smelled like pumpkin spice latte - that he remembered clearly. Everything else he tried to force himself to forget.

It hurt to see Miles trying to find refuge in bottle after bottle, especially after he had been the only thing that Bass had left in the world. It was ironic, that Miles would save Bass just by being physically on this plane of existence. His very life had been enough to keep Bass from eating a bullet, but Bass did not seem enough to keep Miles from surrendering to the demons of his past, the shadows of the war that had followed both of them home.

So he had bought The Republic and told Miles to run it for him, and Miles had agreed. Truth be told, he was a lousy bar tender – was constantly giving booze away for free to his favorite customers, and his mixing repertoire pretty much peaked at the level of a whiskey sour or a vodka tonic, but Bass didn’t care about that. Miles had a great head for management, and despite his best efforts to waste their alcohol supply, the place was turning a profit. And Bass had an excuse to see him every day.

To be perfectly honest, Bass hadn’t exactly been the model of professionalism himself when it came to their regulars. It was difficult when there was booze involved, and, of course, people always opened up to you when you were tending the bar. The bartender was the new confessor in a post-religious world, and as post-religious ways would dictate, the confessor often found the penitent in his own bed after hours. Of course, by that he meant one penitent in particular. And more specifically, he meant Jeremy Baker.

He hadn’t even realized the fox had an interest in men at all until one night it had just been Bass and Charlie (Miles’ niece who helped out at the bar, but wasn’t old enough to legally tend it yet) closing up shop, and Jeremy was still there, still sipping on his Glenfiddich, nothing but utter disregard for last call. It was late, and Bass knew that Charlie had class the next day, and if Ben and Rachel had known he had kept her at the bar into the zero dark thirty hours of the night, they would have had a conjoint conniption, but the kid was some kind of a wizard when it came to waiting tables. She could talk a saint into leaving the contents of their wallet at the altar of her smile. He shouldn’t have been so very fine with taking advantage of this, but, well, he hated waiting on people himself, and she seemed to enjoy the tips and the attention. No one would ever try to get fresh with the niece of the Marine who ran the bar anyways, and they had made sure everyone damn well knew who she was by making her nametag the least subtle thing to ever exist:

Charlie  
 **MATHESON**  


Yup, Bass would have broken every bone in the hand of any pervo who tried to lay a finger on Charlie. They would’ve been picking up their teeth with broken fingers. Insert your cliché threat of choice here, if you will. Jeremy, though, he never even batted an eyelash in her direction. Perfect gentleman, Bass thought, and wondered at Jeremy’s reputation once again. Allegedly, he had the mystical ability to blow any woman’s pants off with a mere look, but Bass had never seen him be anything but respectful and polite to the opposite gender at the bar. Frickin’ Don Juan, Bass smiled to himself as the last of the clientele sifted out the door, leaving him alone with Baker.

“Generally, when Charlie flips that sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’ that’s a not-so-subtle sign for you to go home, Jeremy,” Bass frowned at the man, but there was no heat behind that frown. He had always enjoyed Jeremy’s company.

“And leave you here all alone? That would be truly unsporting of me.” He was stone sober, which was amazing because Bass had personally poured the last of his three drinks. “Why don’t you let me walk you home, Bass?”

Bass had forgotten at what point the sly devil had learned his name, and more importantly, when he’d given the man permission to use such a colloquial version of it. But his thoughts were halted by Jeremy’s fingers brushing against the ridges of his knuckles as he had given him back his change and closed out the tab.

“I did two tours in the sandbox, Jeremy. I can take care of myself.” But he didn’t draw his hand away, leaving it there, for Jeremy’s fingers to trace over.

“I know that. I just figured, for once, you should really let someone else take care of you.”

“Let me put Charlie in a cab,” Bass muttered, eyes becoming unfocused, face flushing in a manner that he would’ve considered definitely unsoldierly.

So they had both put Charlie in a taxi, and then Jeremy, perfect gentleman that he was, went and tucked Bass into bed (tucking himself in between the sheets with him) and followed through on his promise to take good care of the former Marine. _Very_ good care, indeed. Bass was pleasantly raw in all the right places for the next two days and had to tell Miles preposterous lies about how he had pulled his muscle trying out a new weightlifting machine at the gym (to which Miles predictably responded by calling him a ‘pussy’ when they were out of Charlie’s earshot).

Jeremy would “walk Bass home” sporadically. He never stayed the night and Bass never asked him to. They never talked, except to discuss the particulars of a given scenario, both pleased to discover the other open to a wide range of kinks. It scratched the itch with Bass enough so that he could show up at work the next day and stand next to Miles and love him with all the other kinds of love, with _Philia, Agape_ and _Storge_ , but the one - _Eros_ as Plato would call it – that was forbidden him.

***

“So, what’s the story with the two of you anyways?” Jeremy asked Miles with one of his devilish smiles. “You just waiting until gay marriage is legal in Indiana to propose, or what?”

Miles was taken aback by this line of questioning because it had literally come out of nowhere. A mere minute before they had been talking about the latest Bulls game, which was about the level that Miles liked to keep his banter at, especially with other dudes. At first, he was going to retort with some sort of a joke, but when he looked down into Jeremy’s eyes, it became evident his frequent flier wasn’t kidding.

“Uh… what?”

It was brilliant, and there was no other way of describing such a response.

“You and Bass,” Jeremy prodded, sipping his scotch and smiling into the glass.

“He’s like a brother to me, man. That’s just… No.”

“No, you don’t think of him like that? No, no man shall pass? What?”

“Where’s this even coming from?” Miles felt something rise up inside him, an adrenaline response. Baker was playing a dangerous game. ‘Fight, flight, or fuck’ wasn’t really the way you wanted Miles’ synapses to be firing, if you catch my drift.

“My natural curiosity,” Jeremy explicated calmly. “And the fact that I just want to make sure I’m not shitting where I’m eating, so to speak. I like you, Miles, and I don’t wanna be stepping on any toes.”

“Toes? What toes?”

This was almost as brilliant as his original response. Miles was suddenly really happy for Charlie approaching him with an order. It gave him something to do with his hands other than punch Jeremy in the face.

“Hey, Mr. Baker,” she flashed her smile at the Devil just long enough to make the bile rise higher in Miles’ throat.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” the response was neutral enough to diffuse Miles again, for the moment.

“Will you be helping me and Bass close up again?”

Miles flashed a look at both their faces out of the corner of his eye while, pouring way more vodka into the Moscow Mule that he probably should have.

“If by ‘help’ you mean ‘keep drinking until you both throw me out’ then that’s a real possibility,” the man’s voice was steady, friendly, disarming, but something about it continued to make Miles’ blood boil.

He handed the Moscow Mules to Charlie with a nod and quickly excused himself, heading to the back, where Bass was stocking the new arrivals. He felt like a coward. He was on the verge of discovering something, something _important_ , but instead he had run off because he couldn’t take it. And he definitely couldn’t take hearing it from anyone other than Bass.

“You alright, bud?” Bass was twirling what looked like a bottle of Kettle One in his hand, rather precariously. “You look like you’re about to blow chunks.”

“Yeah, man,” Miles brushed his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving it covered with a sheen of his perspiration. “You be careful with that,” he motioned towards the vodka. “That’s the expensive shit.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Bass smiled and that smile warmed Miles to the very core of his being.

“I… uh…. Better get back out there, I guess.”

“Did you come here for a reason though?” Bass asked, his voice devoid of any artifice.

“Oh,” Miles was caught and had to be far more brilliant than he had been with Jeremy to get out of this one. “Yeah, I… We are out of Absolut.”

“I just stocked three extra bottles of it in the lower cupboards,” Bass shot Miles a bewildered look. “Busy night?”

Right, so brilliance was clearly not in the cards for Miles that night.

“Oh,” was his only response. “Right.” And he headed back towards the bar and Jeremy Baker, whom he presumed to find exactly where he had left him.

Only he wasn’t there. A twenty sat on the table, underneath the drained glass.

“Where’d he go?” Miles turned towards Charlie who had been counting change at the till.

“Who?”

“Jeremy. Did he pick up some chick and leave?”

She shrugged and quirked an eyebrow at Miles as if he was asking her the lamest question that’s ever lamed. Miles figured she probably thought he was old _and_ completely brain-dead. Kids these days, no respect for authority, he frowned and contemplated the dead president’s face on the currency set down before him.

“I just wait tables, Uncle Miles,” she flashed him her brightest smile, but there was something behind it that time, something that Miles didn’t quite like. It was as if she had a secret she had been keeping from him. A secret involving Jeremy, and likely Bass as well.

*** 

It had all been going so well, their rhythmic coming and going. Miles opening up the bar, Bass closing up, working side by side in the afternoon. Charlie helping out part-time, Danny studying for his SAT’s in the corner (“Isn’t there a coffee place you can go to for that? Some place that doesn’t have a legal obligation to card?”), Thanksgiving and Christmas spent at the Mathesons’ as if it was expected (Miles would bring the booze, Bass would bring the dessert, they would always arrive and leave together, like clockwork). Bass should have known it wasn’t going to stay that way forever.

But then Jeremy Baker had to come into his life and complicated things. It was supposed to make things simpler. It was supposed to be just sex, something to get out of his system so that he wouldn’t be sprouting a boner each time Miles brushed past him behind the bar. It was supposed to keep his mind off Miles’ hands as they moved, in perfect coordination with Bass’ own, glasses and bottles juggled and reshuffled as if they were actually good at this thing they were doing (they really should take a bartending class one of these days, Bass knew). And then Miles would drop something, and there would be glass everywhere, and Bass would laugh and someone would cry “Opa!” and joke that it was good luck, and they were happy at that moment. Weren’t they? So, why did he have to think of Miles’ lips still when Jeremy kissed him?

And it wasn’t fair, mostly because Jeremy was an excellent lover. Bass would never ask him with his lips, but he could ask with a look, and Jeremy could always tell when Bass wanted to take him home, would reach out with his long fingers, would wrap his arm around Bass’ lower back, press his lips against the sinews of his neck, and Bass would moan in anticipation because he knew that Jeremy had the means of making him forget how to think properly.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Jeremy finally asked one night.

Bass had not consented to this. This wasn’t what they did – the talking thing, especially the talking about _Miles_ thing.

Moreover, they had been in _bed_ , so that was definitely cheating. Jeremy should know better than to ambush Bass like this right after he had thoroughly fucked his brains out. The streaks of Bass’ come weren’t even dry on his abdomen yet, and he was pretty sure Jeremy hadn’t even tied off his own condom yet, so basically…

“What the actual fuck, Jeremy?” was the only response he could come up with under the circumstances.

“I know, I’m breaking the rules.” Jeremy flipped over onto his back and finally pulled his condom off, tying it and tossing it gamely into the trashcan across the room. “Only, see, Bass… the thing is, we never really discussed these rules.”

“I thought it was pretty clear. We have stupendous sex together and then, later, you come to my bar and give me money in exchange for really shitty drinks. It’s pretty much like I’m your whore.”

“Kinky,” Jeremy looked over, grinning sincerely. Bass knew he had made a terrible joke, so he was happy Jeremy appeared to be so forgiving.

“Well, that too.”

“What if I wanted it to be more than just an arm’s length transaction?”

“You mean…?”

“What if I wanted to take you out? You know, properly.”

“I…”

“I would, you know. If you were actually free. Available. But you’re not, are you? You’re carrying the torch for him.”

“It’s not like that, Jer.”

He didn’t know where the hell that pet name had come from either. Clearly, they’d been letting this thing get the drop on them both.

“Tell me what it’s like, Bass.”

“It’s like...” Bass paused preparing himself to give Jeremy the time-worn, well-rehearsed line. “He’s my family.”

“Except he’s _not_ your family.”

That hurt. Bass wondered whether Jeremy had actually intended it to hurt as much as it did. They never spoke of Bass’ past, or much of anything, besides whose turn it was to be tied up. He looked over at Jeremy’s open face – and, no, he couldn’t have meant it to cut the way it did. That wasn’t Jeremy’s style.

“I’m here with you, aren’t I? Why are you even asking me about Miles?”

“You know, I never even said his name – you knew exactly who I was talking about.” Jeremy propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Bass with a look that was simultaneously amused yet benevolent.

“Point,” Bass rolled his eyes and reached out to wrap his fingers around the nape of Jeremy’s neck. He didn’t want to speak of this anymore. “You win a cookie. Can we drop it now?”

“Why don’t I…” Jeremy began to pull away.

“No, Jeremy. Why don’t you stay?”

He was a terrible person, he knew this. He should have allowed Jeremy to leave, should have told him that they had to break it off, that it had been fun but that was all it would ever be. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his lover’s broad shoulders, buried his face in the sweet vanilla scent of his neck, and allowed him to rain soft kisses on his own skin until his eyelids got heavy and he drifted off to sleep, safe and secure in the cage of Jeremy’s arms, while he dreamt of mines and helicopters and sandstorms and Miles Matheson’s brown eyes shining like smoldering coals.

*** 

It had been weeks since Miles had “The Conversation” with Jeremy, if you could even call it that, curtailed and aborted as it was, and Miles still couldn’t force himself to stop thinking about it. When he saw the man subsequently, he had been his usual friendly, polite, over-tipping self. He hadn’t attempted to initiate the discussion again, and Miles hadn’t found the balls to remind him of it.

But it did make him take a harder look at Bass. Harder because it hurt sometimes to look at Bass. He was so transcendent in so many ways. He was a permanent physical manifestation of all of Miles’ memories. He looked at Bass and he saw little league, Emma, Paris Island, Fallujah, everything and _everything_ all at once, and it made him _ache_. But Bass had lost so much, and he had been so resilient, somehow finding the strength to smile for the both of them, and it made Miles’ eyes sting.

He’d known Bass his whole life, or so it seemed. So, why didn’t he know that Bass had been into dudes? Was it just his own willful ignorance or had Bass gone out of his way to hide this little fact?

As for himself, Miles had gone through too many women to ever really question his own proclivities. Only he would have given them all up in an instant if it had been the choice between them and a life without Bass. He wondered if this was what the wily attorney had read deep inside Miles’ soul. That he would have been happier even if it meant just spending the rest of his life at Bass’ side, only to be able to look at him, and never touch, never feel another person’s hands on him because no one’s touch could bring as much warmth as one of Bass’ looks.

 _Shit_.

Miles briefly contemplated calling up his own VA-appointed shrink. But he didn’t think “being gay for your best friend” was something they had drugs for, and he didn’t think CBT would be particularly helpful (unless it stood for Cock and Ball Torture, and not for Cognitive Behavioral Therapy). Miles shook his head and took a shot from the tumbler he’d been holding.

“Jesus, Miles, it’s barely noon,” Bass brushed past him on the way to pick up a mop from the supply closet.

“Well, _you_ certainly look refreshed,” Miles muttered, not wanting to lift his eyes from his booze lest Bass saw something in them that he wasn’t sure he had a right hold on in the first place. “Good night last night?”

“It wasn’t a bad night,” Bass shrugged and gave Miles one of his blinding Hollywood smiles.

“Aren’t you ever gonna introduce us?” Miles asked, clearing his throat and refilling his tumbler in case he needed more liquid courage.

“Huh?”

“The… um… whoever you’ve been seeing?”

“Oh,” Bass paused, frozen like a deer in the headlights. “Nah, it’s not serious,” he finally unfroze and averted his eyes, for which Miles was secretly thankful.

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Does he know it’s not serious?” Miles let that pronoun drop out of his mouth like a stone, waiting for it to hit Bass. He lifted his own gaze to his friend’s face, watching his reaction carefully.

Bass’ hand clenched and unclenched around the mop’s handle.

“How long have you known?” Bass finally asked. He looked embarrassed, but Miles couldn’t quite tell why yet. He needed to eliminate the possibilities.

“Not long. Look, Bass, you know you don’t have to lie to me about stuff like this, right? This isn’t Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. Who you sleep with doesn’t change… you know… us.”

That didn’t come out right. Miles could tell by the way the corner of Bass’ mouth twitched upwards in a semi-smirk.

“No, of course it doesn’t change us,” Bass replied, the shadow of a sad smile still on his face. “We are what we are and it has nothing to do with the fact that I also happen like guys.”

“Exactly,” Miles said, frowning because he couldn’t be quite sure what it was that he had just agreed to.

“Great. Good talk, Miles.” Bass turned around about to head back to the stock room.

“Bass, wait…” He wasn’t sure why he had halted the other man, Miles’ hand grabbing instinctively at Bass’ elbow. “I want you to be happy. You know that, right?”

Bass turned he head around and suddenly his eyes were far too blue and much, much too close to Miles’ own eyes. Miles swallowed and wet his lips.

“Sure, Miles.”

“He does make you happy?”

“I told you – it isn’t serious,” Bass pulled away, softly extracting his elbow from Miles’ grasp. “If it gets serious, I promise you’ll be the second person to know.”

“Okay,” Miles took a step back, feeling strangely relieved and contemplating another shot to celebrate the strange feeling. His relief must have been evident in his face because Bass gave him a curious look, one eyebrow twitching upwards in an unuttered question, and headed towards the back of the bar. “Hey, don’t forget the barbeque at Ben’s on Sunday!” Miles shouted after him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m bringing pie,” Bass waved back before disappearing into the stock room.

 ***

“You can’t possibly be here for the cocktails,” Jeremy smiled at the blonde leaning against the bar, tapping away on her phone again. She had upgraded her Blackberry to something evidently bereft of buttons.

“Mr. Baker,” the woman smiled and flashed a look of recognition over her sunglasses.

“Dr. Foster. What an unexpected surprise.” He lifted her hand to his lips in an archaic but gallant gesture that most women still found appealing. The key was not to kiss the hand too wetly.

“The hospital brought me in to consult on another case,” the woman smiled again and put her mobile away. “And you did say you were quite a regular here.”

That was bold, and Jeremy had always been fond of bold.

“You could have called, Mags,” he lifted his drink in a salute, clinging his glass against hers.

“I lost your number,” Maggie Foster responded, no sign of coyness in her voice. “My phone was stolen.”

“England,” he shrugged. “A den of inequity.”

That made her laugh. She remembered this side of Jeremy Baker fondly. Of course, there were other sides of Jeremy Baker that she remembered with a tantamount fondness that had nothing to do with his wit.

“I would have made more of an effort to stalk you, but the internet is full of Jeremy Bakers.”

“It’s not the most uncommon of names, true.” He shrugged and draped his arm around her back. “Mags, why don’t I take you to a bar that serves real drinks?”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

He looked around as if making sure they weren’t overheard.

“The bartenders are awful,” he whispered, conspiratorially, and Maggie laughed again and leaned closer to his body. It emanated a pleasant sort of heat.

“Let’s go then,” she whispered, watching Jeremy leave a few bills on the bar.

He offered her his arm and together they glided out the door like two elegant swans.

“Ugh, what a douche!” Charlie slammed the empty glasses angrily onto the counter.

“What’s the matter, Charlie?” Miles had been in the back, grabbing a fresh bottle of whiskey, during the entire exchange between Jeremy and Dr. Foster.

“Nothing,” his niece muttered. “It’s none of my business, anyways.”

“Hey, what happened to the Englishwoman who was sitting right here?” Miles asked, eyeing the stash of cash neatly set down on the counter where Maggie used to be.

“Jeremy!” Charlie snapped, her eyes rolling with great gusto into the back of her head, and stormed off to take someone else order rather militantly.

It took Miles a few moments to put two and two together and when he did, a slow smile spread across his face.

“I guess it’s _not_ serious after all,” he muttered under his breath, and mechanically moved the bills off the counter and into the till.

*** 

They were both drunk. That alone was nothing to write home about, Bass and Miles had been drunk together more times than one could count. What was different about this time was that they were at Miles’ brother’s home, in the middle of a family barbeque, in front of the children. Of course, to call Danny and Charlie “children” was a bit of a stretch at this point, but to them they would always seem somewhere roughly between the ages of “fetus” and “five.”

Granted, it’s not as if the kids had never seen Uncle Miles shitfaced. He wasn’t a violent drunk. If anything, he would get quieter and more introspective. Sometimes he could, with proper coaxing, be drawn out of his shell for a story, but such stories often involved people’s body parts getting blown to bits. The subject was oddly alluring for Charlie, but her brother’s sensitivities were also to be considered and respected. Not everyone was made of the same metal, after all.

Bass, on the other hand, took his designated driver duties religiously (which wasn’t so unusual in light of his family tragedy, and besides, he’d always been the responsible one). But he had taken a cab to the Mathesons’ place that day, earning a raised eyebrow from Miles and undignified questions from Charlie regarding the whereabouts of his car.

“I _told_ you, Miles. I was planning on getting stupidly drunk,” Bass slurred and smiled at his best friend, saluting him with what was probably his sixth beer.

“Why?” Miles’ head lulled weakly against his shoulder. “Bad break-up?”

“’Sfine,” Bass mumbled and took another sip. “He’s a big boy. He can take it.”

“Oh?” Miles quirked a brow, taking a drink of his own beer. “So _you_ broke up with him?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because…” Miles took a long look at Bass’ face. “You’re important to me. If that bastard hurt you, I’d put arsenic in his scotch next time. I’d crush his fucking balls. I don’t care how big of a tipper he is.” Miles grimaced.

“Wow, that’s… an unexpected display of masculinity, Miles,” Bass laughed and suppressed a little hick-up. “I don’t need you to defend me, I can fight my own battles.”

“I know you can, I just…”

“It’s fine. We weren’t a thing. So it wasn’t really a break-up. Just two people going their separate ways in the night.”

“If you say so. I’m glad. I actually rather like Baker, but… I don’t ever want you to get hurt,” Miles mumbled into the neck of his beer bottle.

“Awww,” Bass looked over at him, full of drunken smiles and a twinkle in his eye, and patted Miles’ knee with his hand and let it linger there. “He cares!” Bass declared to the universe, eyes still on Miles’ embarrassed face.

“Of course, I care.” Miles looked down at the hand resting on his knee. “More than you know,” he added so quietly that he hoped Bass couldn’t actually make it out. The alcohol in his veins was pleasantly warm and his head felt just heavy enough to sort of sway in the early summer breeze.

Memorial Day. As if he didn’t have enough reasons to get drunk already. He looked around Ben and Rachel’s backyard and thought about how little they knew about the meaning of Memorial Day, and how he would fight another ten wars just to keep them this blissfully ignorant forever. Charlie and Danny were engaged in a heated argument about whether badminton was an outdoor sport (it wasn’t, but he was going to stay out of this), and Rachel was manning the grill (a turn of phrase he found amusing even in his own head). Ben had gone back into the kitchen for more ice. Everything was perfect, Miles thought. Well, almost everything.

“Bass,” he began, eyes refocusing. “You took a bullet for me in Fallujah and I…”

“Woah, man, I’m gonna stop you right there,” Bass shook his head and aggressively attempted to finish his beer. “We don’t need to take that walk down memory lane.”

“No, we do. Because we never talked about it.”

“There’s nothing to say, Miles.”

“It’s not other men. It’s just you, Bass.”

Sure, it wasn’t the most eloquent way to broach the topic, but it was the best Miles could muster at the moment. His brain felt pleasantly fuzzy as he spoke.

“Miles… _what?_ ”

“I just can’t imagine anyone else in my life but you. I don’t think I could live without you. I just… I hope I don’t have to, you know?”

“Miles, you’re drunk. And a huge asshole for having this conversation with me when _I_ am as drunk as I am.”

“I’m just drunk enough to say it, not nearly drunk enough to not know what the hell I’m talking about,” Miles protested and rubbed his thumb gently against the knuckles of Bass’ hand.

“Say what, exactly?”

“That I love you.”

“I love you too, man.”

“No. Not in an ‘I love you too, man’ way.” Miles shook his head emphatically. Jesus, did he really just say that? Perhaps Bass was right and he was more plastered than he realized.

“Miles, don’t. Please. If you have something to say to me, please say it to me when at least one of us is sober. _Christ_.”

“Okay, Bass. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just be quiet.” Bass looked over at Miles again and it made Miles’ heart skip a beat. He didn’t look angry, just sort of relaxed and even smiling around the eyes. Drunk was a good look on him, Miles thought. Everything was a good look on him. Bass turned his hand so that he could be palm to palm with Miles and squeezed softly. They held each other’s hands briefly before Bass pulled away and rose out of the lawn chair. “I’m gonna see if Rachel needs help. You need another beer?”

“’M good,” Miles muttered, watching the rays of the setting sun hitting Bass’ hair, making his golden curls look even more like a halo. _It’s true_ , Miles thought, _sometimes the thing you’ve always wanted turns out to have been in front of you all along._

 ***

“God, you _asshole_! Do you even know how hard it was to find someone to cover the bar today? Nora only agreed to do it if I doubled her pay.” Bass was standing in the doorway with his arms full of groceries, which he angrily shoved towards Miles and his smirking face. “I got you chicken soup, you jerk!” He stormed into Miles’ apartment, looking around angrily at the set-up, which included a completely set table for two with even something that looked suspiciously like a candle in the centerpiece. “You could at least have the decency to continue to pretend to be ill!”

“Why? Once I lured you here, any pretense seems a bit of an overkill, don’t you think?” Miles grinned complacently and set the groceries down on his kitchen counter.

“You sounded like you were dying over the phone!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t really know how else to get you to come over and leave The Republic for the night.”

“You think I care about the bar more than I care about you?” Bass looked actually offended, causing Miles to reconsider his strategy. He was learning that he wasn’t as good at strategizing as he thought. He was much better at the whole war thing than at… this, whatever this was.

“Bass, just… go. Sit down.” Miles indicated the table and pulled one of the chairs out gallantly. “I tricked you into coming here for a reason,” he said, once Bass carelessly plopped down, and walked over to take his own seat across the small table from his friend. “May I offer you some wine?”

“Miles, I swear to fucking God…”

Miles poured the wine despite the expletive and then filled his own glass.

“This can’t come as a great shock to you. You must at the very least have an inkling why I had to concoct the elaborate ruse, and…” he indicated the table, “All this.”

Bass sighed. “No doubt you wish to butter me up for something terrible.”

Miles almost laughed except the look on his best friend’s face was nothing if not that of sincerest concern.

“Well, then. Out with it,” Bass reached for his wine glass and took a first sip. “What’s going on? Who’s dying? Are you leaving? Are we getting our license revoked for allowing Danny to hang out at the bar?”

Miles took a deep breath.

“Either we shall find what it is we are seeking or at least we shall free ourselves from the persuasion that we know what we do not know,” he recited from memory, concentrating to get the words just right.

“Miles,” Bass put his glass down. “Did you just quote from the actual Plato’s _Republic_ at me?”

“I did.”

“And what is it that we shall find, that we are seeking?” Bass leaned in, eyes sparkling in the glow of the solitary candle.

“What Plato most concerned himself with. Namely – love.”

Bass laughed and shook out his curls. “You’re the weirdest weirdo I’ve ever met.” He reached for the bread and took an unceremonious bite of it washing it down with more wine.

“You told me that I’m to have this conversation with you when at least one of us is sober, well…” Miles indicated their glasses. “We’re both still sober. And I love you. So…” He paused, looking away from Bass’ piercing look. “Do you think you could… ever love me back?”

Bass put down his own glass, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met,” he whispered, hotly.

“Is that a no?”

“You had to make me wait for thirty years for you to ask that _stupid_ question?” Bass shoved his chair back, rising off it and towering over Miles and the table. He took a step closer and grabbed Miles’ chin in his hand, forcing the man to meet his gaze. Miles was about to speak when Bass shook his head, causing the sound to halt in Miles’ throat. “Really, Miles? After all this time? Did you ever really think there could be anyone else for me but you? You _fucking_ idiot.”

His angel resembled an avenging one a bit, Miles figured, with Bass looming over him, eyes flashing as if with bottled up lightning. And then he smiled at Miles, and Miles felt his heart melt right in his chest. Even though Bass had asked him a question, actually a number of questions, he knew he needed no words to answer them: only lots of lost time to make up for.

He placed his hand on Bass’ wrist, the one propping up his chin, and leaned into the touch. From there, he moved more decisively, rising up, sliding his other hand up along the length of Bass’ thigh, up to come flush with the curves of his ass, to press their bodies together at last. And before Bass could ask him another question, he answered with a kiss.

Bass was stone sober but he felt as if he had just downed three bottles of wine all by himself. The feel of Miles’ mouth against his was the beginning and the end of every fantasy he’s ever not dared to have, and more. Miles kissed exactly as he did everything else: decisively and with great flare. Bass moaned into his friend’s mouth, opening up, letting the querying tongue in, allowing himself the luxury of indulging by sucking and biting at Miles’ lower lip. The very fact that Miles would let him made him ragingly hard and it was only the first kiss. The rest of the night might actually kill him from a sudden flooding of his system with hormones.

“Miles,” he finally broke away from the mouth attacking his. “I swear if you don’t start making the last thirty years up to me immediately, I’m going to…”

But he was interrupted by the resurgence of violent kisses that assaulted his lips, his face, his neck. Miles was a furnace, and one in which Bass was perfectly happy to burn.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, craning his neck, giving Miles’ searching mouth the access it craved. “I’ll pay Nora triple. I’m not leaving your apartment for a week,” Bass declared, just as Miles wrapped his arms around his hips and lifted him into the air.

“Only a week?” Miles smirked.

“Depends on how much more Plato you plan on quoting.”

“I don’t plan on speaking at all,” Miles pronounced with feigned gravity, and began the precarious walk towards the bedroom, Bass still held aloft in his arms.

“You’re a Neanderthal,” Bass gave a small squeal at being manhandled in such an undignified fashion. Miles grinned and lowered him onto the bed.

“But you’ve always loved me regardless.”

“I have,” Bass admitted, looking up at his best friend, his family, his _lover_ , and added, “With every single type of love.”


End file.
